


buried wreath of trillium and ivy

by thatsparrow



Series: mollymauk lives fest 2019 [5]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: "They seem to know a lot, your flowers," Caleb says, dry."And yet have they ever successfully predicted the weather? No—which would seem a much more useful trick."--written for day five of mollymauk lives fest: flowers





	buried wreath of trillium and ivy

**Author's Note:**

> yesterday was a lazy day so this is going up late on saturday and we're just going to pretend it's still day five of the fest.
> 
> both tarot card designs are inspired by [raboidal's](https://rabdoidal.tumblr.com/) artwork: [caleb's tatoos](https://rabdoidal.tumblr.com/post/184894938965/anonymous-asked-i-like-to-think-a-healing) & [molly's bouquet](https://rabdoidal.tumblr.com/post/177717683525/mollymauk-lives-festival-day-3-flowersfun-with)
> 
> title from "don't carry it all" by the decemberists

The man sitting across the table from him doesn't look like his usual clientele—unkempt, is perhaps the kindest way of putting it. Dirt rubbed so deep into the lines of his face that Molly's having trouble figuring the skin tone underneath, hair knotted up in tangles like it's been done so intentionally. His clothes look borrowed or stolen—twice-mended and overlarge in the shoulders, sleeves hanging low past his wrists. He looks unenthused about the whole endeavor, too, slouched down until his coat collar is coming up to his ears. Likely wouldn't be there at all were it not for the odd-seeming halfling girl in the seat next to him who'd volunteered her own coppers for the reading before heading back to the bar.

"Come on, Caleb," she'd said, voice muffled behind the white-painted porcelain mask, the rest of her face bandaged up in cloth. "Don't you want to know your future?"

The man—Caleb—had grunted in response, shifted even lower in the chair. " _Nein_ —not particularly." His accent is Zemnian, his voice clipped. "If the past is anything to go by, there's nothing promising there."

It's a sentiment Molly understands all too well, and so maybe that's why he shifts from his usual routine, throws an extra bit of showmanship into the shuffle so neither of them see the extra card he slips from his sleeve onto the top of the deck. He ordinarily sets it aside for special occasions, but damn if the fellow doesn't look like he needs it.

"You know, Mr. Caleb, you strike me as a busy man," Molly says, leaning forward a bit. "Why don't we make this a bit simpler? I'll give you back two of your coppers—" one of them looks painted, anyway, "—and instead of doing a full reading, I'll just draw one card. Save us both a bit of time and I can still give you a glimpse of the future, if a narrower view."

Caleb smiles a little—at least, presses his lips together in something close to a smile. "That would be nice, if you don't mind."

"Not in the slightest, so long as you do me a favor and extend a willingness to what the card has to say. Now—" Molly pushes the deck forward across the tavern table, indicates with a sweep of his hand for Caleb to pull from the top, "—let's see what's in your future."

Caleb nods. As he reaches over, the sleeve of his coat rides up enough for Molly to catch a look at his arm, bandaged up like the halfling girl's face in his own collection of dirt and sweat-stained cloth. A curiosity to be sure, but even with the question eager on his tongue, Molly knows better than to ask. 

"Do I need to do anything, or—?" Caleb asks as his hand settles on the deck.

"If you've got some sort of incantation you'd like to say, I certainly won't stop you. A good blood sacrifice never goes amiss, either." He laughs a little at the look of confusion on Caleb's face. When's the last time this fellow heard a joke? "Only teasing, friend. Just turn it over on the table and give us a look."

Caleb obliges, looking more at Molly than at his own hand as he pulls the card, and so he misses the flash of purple that flares up brief when his fingers touch the edges.

"Show us what you've got, then."

(He knows already, of course, but that doesn't lessen any of the fun at seeing Caleb's face when he makes the connection himself.)

"Ah, the Flowers—" Molly makes a show of looking the card over. "One of my favorites, that."

"I—" Caleb looks from Molly to the card and back again. "I don't understand."

"It's your future, friend. You're not always meant to understand."

"No, not that— _that_." He nods his head at the card, brows pulling together. Most people are delighted when they see the Flowers, charmed even as they try to figure how Molly's done it. Not Caleb, though. He looks about ready to tear the thing in two.

It's himself he's looking at on the card—a younger version, or, perhaps, just a more kempt one. Hair brushed back from his face and washed clean to a red-brown luster, skin scrubbed to a healthy shade of pink and beard trimmed back tight around his jawline. He's wearing some sort of tunic, too, but none of that seems to be what's drawn Caleb's ire. In the drawing, his cuffs are rolled back to the elbow, showing off two full sleeves of floral artwork up his arms, the faint lines of shiny silver scar tissue still visible underneath. So that explains the bandages, then.

"I've never seen them manifest as tattoos, before," Molly says, still looking at the card upside down. "Clever, though. Now, let's see what we've got—" but he hasn't had the chance to make out more than the shape of a sunflower and a cluster of lemon balm encircling the wrist when Caleb's hand comes down on the table, covering up the card. 

"Who are you?" Caleb hisses, his words sharp enough to draw blood. "How the _fuck_ do you know me?"

"Ease up now, friend." Below the table, Molly's left hand drops to its sword hilt. "I swear to whichever god you prefer that I've no idea who you are, and I've got no idea what you're seeing in the card that's gotten your claws out. It's just a trick, alright? Just meant to be a bit of fun." He reaches for the edge of the Flowers visible under Caleb's flattened hand, peeling it free by his nails. "Look." As soon as Molly touches it, there's another flare of lavender light along the back, a ripple of magic running across the design from top to base. When the flash clears, it's Molly's likeness that shows up on the card, a bouquet rich with purple carnations and white asphodel held between his hands, part of his face visible behind the blooms. "I've not enough familiarity with spellcraft to tell you the enchantment in the card, I just know that it's triggered by touch. I could hand it to any stranger in this bar and it'd behave much the same." He holds up his hands in surrender, the Flowers still pinched between his fingers. "Okay?"

Caleb nods, slow, pulling his hand back from the table. As far as Molly can tell, no one's paying them enough heed to have noticed the brief moment of tension—a blessing. He turns the card over in his hands, quick enough the flowers seem to be moving in a painted breeze. "Perhaps this is a foolish question, but I don't suppose you'd still like me to continue the reading, do you?"

Caleb laughs a little, nervous. "That wouldn't have been my first thought, and I probably should go meet my companion, but—" 

_But you're curious now, aren't you? Everyone is. You want to know what it learned from your touch to paint you the way it did_.

"Can't imagine there's any harm in staying a few moments longer," Molly says, grinning, his smile turned bright with charm. "Besides, it'll make me feel that much better about holding onto your money."

" _Ja_ , alright then." Caleb extends his hand to take the card back. "Let's see what the future holds."

There's a scholar's curiosity in his eyes as the design ripples back, a focus that doesn't quite line up with the run-ragged seams of his clothes—not like the fellow in the card, all bright-eyed and earnest, easy enough to imagine with arms laden heavy with books.

"You familiar at all with the language of flowers, Mr. Caleb?"

"I don't think so."

"Simple enough—each bloom has a meaning to it, and that's what I usually look for when reading the card." Molly leans closer. "Bloody difficult to see them when they're this small, though, for as pleasing as the design is." He uses the tip of his index finger to indicate the lines of yellow along painted-Caleb's forearm. "The sunflower's the easiest to see. Prominent, too, which generally means we should give its meaning a little more weight." He glances up from the card to Caleb. "Optimism and loyalty are the traits it's usually associated with."

Caleb snorts. "Wouldn't have described myself as such."

Molly smiles. "Perhaps not now, but maybe that's how you'd like to be—to see the world with bright eyes, to hold fast to friends and family."

(Caleb's hands stutter when Molly mentions _family_ , but Molly's too focused on trying to parse the shapes of the flowers to notice.)

"That there behind it, the sprig of small pink-and-white ones? Looks like a cherry blossom—kindness." Molly's finger traces up, moving towards painted-Caleb's elbow, careful not to touch. "An interesting mix, there—see the rosemary? That's for remembrance, but it's in front of a daffodil, which is new beginnings." He finds it difficult to not to glance up towards Caleb's own arms, half expecting to see the flowers there instead of where they're frozen in ink on the card, to see a riot of color in place of the bandages. "There's thyme, too—magical protection, which I don't think I've seen before."

"They seem to know a lot, your flowers," Caleb says, dry.

"And yet have they ever successfully predicted the weather? No—which would seem a much more useful trick." His attention drifts, eyes narrowed for what other familiar petals he can suss out. "White amaryllis, that looks like, for pride. And down there, circling the wrist? That's lemon balm, for social grace. Can't imagine why." He softens the barb with a bit of a laugh but Caleb doesn't seem to have taken offense at it.

"Some of these would have served me very well in my younger days. Shame I didn't know of them sooner."

"In fairness, I'd likely make much less money if my cards dealt only with the past."

"True enough."

For as often as Molly's seen the Flowers, he can't remember their design ever being so intricate. He might keep the card wrapped up in a cloth after this to view it again in the future. 

"I'll have to take a guess at some of these," Molly says, trying to parse out the clusters of yellow and white. "I'd wager that's celandine with a sprig of foxglove next to it—a bright future and insecurity, respectively."

"There's a flower for insecurity?"

"The language of plants is thorough in covering its bases." He's still focused on the card, and so he can't see whether or not Caleb is smiling, but he hears something that sounds like a laugh. "I can only see bits of this one with the pink edges, blocked as it is, but it looks like eglantine rose—healing wounds, that is. Oh, and that's a marigold, for grief. And—" Molly squints, "—bird's-foot trefoil, maybe? A funny one to see, that. Represents revenge. Forget-me-nots, last, kind of scattered throughout. Easy guess on that one—for not forgetting the past."

"Little chance of that, I think." Caleb reaches for the card. "May I?"

Molly nods. "Please."

"I am sorry for having taken such a—short tone with you, earlier." Caleb looks sheepish; it's a charming expression for his face. "I've taken certain pains to cover up the less rosy parts of my history and it was...unnerving, to be reminded of them so."

"My apologies for that. I know too well that the past is often best kept there."

Caleb nods, but his eyes seem distant. "Do you mind if I hold onto this for a moment? Just ten minutes or so—I'd like to try identifying the enchantment, if that's alright with you."

"I'll be here the rest of the evening. So long as you bring it back by then, no harm done." Molly leans forward, lets his smile turn something dangerous. "Besides, I can't say I'd mind an excuse to keep an eye on you a little while longer." He grins, seeing Caleb flush even through the dirt on his cheeks and the low light of the tavern. The poor fellow's in desperate need of a bath and gods know Molly would be happy to draw him one.

"You have my word I'll have it back to you shortly."

"Wonderful. And, tell you what—if you're curious, you can buy me a drink and I'll tell you what my flowers mean."

Caleb tries out another smile, managing one that actually looks sincere. "I'd like that." And then he's off, slipping through the tavern to the steps and the rooms above. Certainly not how Molly expected his own night to go—though, it's not as if the cards have ever given him a detailed-enough reading to know—but he isn't complaining. Perhaps if he's lucky, Caleb will let him close enough to see the rest of what's under his coat and shirt beyond the bandages. Perhaps he'll let Molly paint a daffodil on the bare stretch of skin at the crook of his elbow.


End file.
